


Color-Coded Kids

by nobodynoticedquint



Category: Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Explicit Language, F/F, Yearning, excessive use of metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25780273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodynoticedquint/pseuds/nobodynoticedquint
Summary: Appearances kept were not the end-all, be-all of the Heathers. Veronica would come to know this quite well.
Relationships: Heather Chandler/Heather McNamara
Comments: 5
Kudos: 34





	Color-Coded Kids

Heather Chandler was a stone cold mythic bitch. Obviously. She was detached, cruel, self-made, and undeniably lethal. Needless to say, Veronica Sawyer was fairly certain that she knew exactly what brand of cultist regime she was being initiated for at the start of her senior year. Needless to say, Veronica Sawyer was almost completely wrong. Appearances kept were not the end all, be all of the Heathers. Not in the slightest.

Unfortunately for Heather Chandler’s raging detachment complex, hanging out with the same two girls and sharing everything (including a name, excluding colors) fostered some sense of something akin to caring. Though, if that caring were ever verbalized, it would surely end ina slaughter most profane. So, Veronica supposed Chandler had that going for her image. As long as no one caught on to the non-verbal cues.

Instance One: McNamara Unburdened.

It started like this: Kurt Kelly called the Heathers “color-coded cunts” in a very public break-up scene. Really, Veronica should have captured that on home video, preserved to rewind and replay for years to come. Really, she had to meet the person to actually think of that (Kurt wishes he were so clever) and thank them for single-handedly saving comedy. Really, all she did was tag along with Duke while Chandler led Mac to their restroom post Kurt Kelly’s kick to the balls. Heels clicking on the tile floors of hell never inspired so much fear; a queen had fallen for a moment and the first to take her place would burn.

The bathroom had always been oddly spotless for a public high school. Odder, still, was the sight of Chandler clinging tightly to Mac as they sat pressed into the corner. She looked up at Duke and perfectly painted lips mouthed words that Veronica couldn’t catch. So, she and Duke stood guard, dutifully silent in debt to their creator. Several minutes passed, ticking away as Heather McNamara returned to her throne, tears fading to stony eyes and white knuckles prying themselves from comfortable captivity.

Heather Chandler did not speak at first, simply fixed the makeup of her confidant, straightened her hem, and nodded resolutely. The Heathers were ready to exercise their power unrestrained. But-

“What are you?” She’s biting.

“A Heather.”

“What do I always tell you?”

“No one fucks with a Heather.”

Veronica watched Duke mouth those words in tandmen, a prayer for the not-quite damned.

Instance Two: Duke Unconsumed.

She thought that maybe that day in the bathroom was a fluke. No kind words had found their way through conversation since. I was as if Heather Chandler lived by a rule of “if you don’t have anything mean to say, shut the fuck up.” Which, as Veronica considered it, seemed increasingly likely. But, as it happened, Chandler’s actions showed yet another lapse in cruelty several weeks later.

Ironically enough, the second instance began with someone on the floor in the bathroom. A post-purge Duke pressed unsteady heels into the floor faster than her poor body could handle. She crumpled: pale, shaking, and unfit to wear a crown. No one could know that the porcelain throne of bile was cracking under the weight of calories it never got. Heather McNamara shook her awake and Veronica Sawyer gave her a face wipe and Heather Chandler was no longer anywhere to be found, the bathroom door swinging shut in her place. They were color-coded kids with a habit of self-destruction in an otherwise empty, oddly spotless bathroom. Veronica thought that maybe Chandler had given up on the people ruining her image. Maybe she was renouncing a fallen kingdom. And yet…

She was at the lunch table the next day, waiting for them, red scrunchie, red water bottle, red lunch tray, red lips, red bitch. Red apple for a-

“I’m surprised you’d let me be seen with your color.”

“Shut up, Heather. Granny smiths are for baking and baking only. Don’t be dumb.”

Duke studied the apple, wrote a few notes in her green journal, then took a bite. Shiny, red apple against yellow teeth and blue lips, methodical and mechanical, followed by calculating eyes. The internal clocks of royals went tick tock, tick tock until the core dropped into a brown bag.

All but one looked away as Heather Duke pushed herself up on unsteady feet.

“Heather.”

“I need to use the restroom, Heather.”

“And I need your help with English. Moby Dick. So, sit your ass down and deal.”

What else could she do but obey, eyes up to God like a prisoner condemned? They paged through the text, discussing themes and underlying meanings. Veronica Sawyer watched, completely aware that Moby Dick was not on the English lesson plans at all. She wondered idly what the “underlying themes” of that were.

Instance Three: Sawyer Unforgotten.

Veronica had been slowly but surely building a case for the idea that Heather Chandler was not immune to the human inclination toward attachment, as had previously been assumed. A kiss, short and sweet, pressed to the cheek of Heather McNamara under the cover of darkness at a sleepover. The slight furrow of a brow when Heather Duke stayed home sick for the third time that month. She felt as though her discovery could go down in history: Demon Queen, Satan Incarnate, had a soft spot for those who reigned by her side? Absolutely unprecedented. Rumor mill gold. Unfortunately, (was it really so unfortunate?) things changed.

She hung out with Heather Chandler, just the two of them, on a Friday night. Frankly, Veronica was prepared for it to be her last night on Earth. Guillotine the figurehead of the impending revolution, cut it off before it ever even begins. But-

“I’ll reheat some spaghetti for you. Extra oregano, yeah? Heather made too much yesterday.” Ignoring the obvious Heather-made-dinner of it all (another addition to an internal file labelled “lesbians?”), Heather remembered that Veronica liked extra oregano.

“You remembered, how kind…”

“Shut up.” A pause. “You’re doing me a favor. Some of us can’t OD on carbs… so, don’t be a pillowcase, Sawyer.”

She shut up and let Chandler reheat a plate of pasta, smiling a small, self-satisfied smirk from her perch atop the counter. Like it or not - and she clearly did not - Heather lacked the icy heart she boasted. It may have struck Veronica Sawyer more than she cared to admit. She really was one of the Heathers, crown and all. The revolution… maybe the revolution could wait a little longer. Maybe Chandler could learn to be a good person without hiding behind an asshole mask.

“So you and Mac, huh?” Red Queen with blazing cheeks.

“Only in your fantasies.”

“It’s okay, Heather, I’m not gonna tell anyone. Who would believe me anyway?”

“... I suppose… Just - eat your damn pasta.”

She couldn’t hide the slight upturn of lips locked in color-coded kisses behind closed doors. Veronica thought that, underneath it all, she didn’t really want to.

Appearances kept were not the end all, be all of the Heathers. In fact, they barely scratched the surface. So maybe Veronica Sawyer expected a cultist regime - and maybe she got that in part - but, really, the Heathers were just color-coded kids who took the throne too young and shared everything, including a name.


End file.
